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User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Plight of the Unmourned (Chapter 2)
Chapter 1 Part 1 Caius Cosades rushed around his one room house, struggling to deal with his short deadline and the sudden cropping up of half a dozen problems. Two of his five informants were missing, a swath of cultists had recently made a bold move, and some tribal had recently made contact with him. Need to write that down. ''He thought, crossing to inkwell and parchment. ''An agent is what I need. Someone I can send out to make contact, if I ever managed to get one. ''Vvardenfell wasn’t high on the Emperor’s priorities for spying, and every Blade Caius had at his disposal was otherwise occupied. ''I don’t get paid enough for this. He thought, as he pulled the quill from the inkwell. His hand shook, splattering the ink off of the quill’s tip all over the parchment. Getting the shakes again. ''He noted, and then reached across his desk to where his bowl of moon sugar sat. He took a handful of the powder and then shoveled it into his mouth. He regained control of his hand, dipped it in the ink, flipped the parchment over to the clean side, and lowered the quill to write. A knock sounded at the door. “Oh what is it now…” Caius growled to himself, dropping the quill down onto the desk and marching to the door. He swung it open, and was greeted by a Dunmer with the most busted up nose he’d ever seen. “Caius Cosades?” The Dunmer asked politely. “Yeah.” Caius mumbled, slurring his voice. “What do you want?” “Nothing much.” The Dunmer said, and then threw a punch at Caius’ face. ---- Scire had been struggling with how to deal with Caius on the ride over by Silt Strider, then on his way to the corner club, then during his meal, and then during the walk to Caius’ house, the location of which he’d gotten from his server. Eventually, he decided just opening strong, showing who was in charge, would work. He’d knock Caius on his rump, maybe rant a bit, demand answers, and then be told exactly what was going on. He had it all spelled out. He finally arrived at his ‘contact’s’ house and knocked on the door. “Caius Cosades?” Scire asked in a mockingly polite tone. “Yeah?” Caius replied, his voice slurred. He was drunk. Well, that’d certainly make it easy to get answers out of him. “What do you want?” “Nothing much.” Scire said, and then struck out with a jab from Caius’ cheekbone. The Imperial caught Scire’s wrist in a lazy gesture, definitely pretending to be drunk and probably quite sober, and painfully twisted the arm downwards, forcing Scire to dig his elbow into his own side. “Ow, ow, ow.” Scire protested, not liking where this was headed. The old man wasn;t done, however, he punched out directly into the personal place between Scire’s legs with his other fist. Scire groaned, eyes fluttering, and would’ve crumpled over had Caius not caught him by the front of his shirt. The old man looked past Scire, checking each way, and then yanked the Dunmer by his shirt inside, tossing him to the dirt floor of his shack. Scire hit the ground in a heap and immediately protectively covered his crotch with both hands, and folded his legs up. “Alright.” Caius began, shutting the door and looking down at Scire. The old man, Scire realized, was rather muscular in actuality. He had a rippling physique that definitely did not match his weathered face. Scire hadn’t really even noticed that the man was without a shirt until this moment. “Who are you and how do you know my name?” The Imperial asked, folding his thick arms. “Told to report to Caius Cosades.” Scire answered in a strained voice. “What? Yes, I’m Caius Cosades. But, what do you mean you were told to ‘report to Caius Cosades?’ What are you talking about?” “Note…” Scire grumbled. “Package for you.” He reached into the confines of shirt and came out with the sealed package and its adjoining note. “Here.” He extended the package and note towards Caius from his spot on the ground. Caius took the package and tucked it in his waistband, and holding the note up with the other to scan. He chuckled. “’Fate of all traitors.’ Ole Belly always did have a way with words.” He held up the note for Scire to see. “You know what this means, right? You don’t listen what I have to say, and they lop your head off just for the fun of it.” “Yeah, I know.” Scire muttered. “Although that doesn’t sound so bad right now. I mean, who aims for the damned balls?” Caius ignored him, tossing the note aside and cracking open the passage. He pulled out a stack of documents for it and briefly skimmed one, before giving a curt nod. “Well now…” He muttered to himself, before returning the documents to their folder. “Seems you’re going to work for me now, Scire.” Caius declared. “Azura save me.” The Dunmer growled under his breath, shoving himself up onto his knees. “So?” Caius began without much ado. “Are you ready to join the Blades and follow my orders, Scire?” Scire paused half-way to his feet. “Blades?” Caius nodded. “That’s right.” “The bodyguards?” Caius shook his head. “That’s not all the Blades are, in fact, that’s the least of our duties. We're spies. We're the Emperor's hidden eyes and ears in the provinces. We watch the Emperor's enemies. We look for opportunities. We make reports. And, when the Emperor commands, we obey. But we're only one of many guilds and factions in Morrowind. You should know a little about Morrowind politics before you get involved with any of these other groups.” “I know plenty of Morrowind politics.” Scire told Caius, standing up straight now and dusting himself off. “Who’s the head of House Telvanni?” Caius asked off-handedly. Scire met him with a blank expression. “Lord…” he began, drawing the word out. Caius gave him a questioning look. “…Vel-ne-ta-ye-ith…le” Scire said, adding new syllables on repeatedly in hope he was drawing close whenever Caius shook his head or just gave him an exasperated look. “No.” Caius said, bluntly. “That’s not his name at all.” “Ha, so it is a he! I got that right.” Scire said. “Listen here.” Caius said, stepping down from the doorway. He immediately dropped in height, and Scire practically towered over him having to drop his chin to his chest to meet the Imperial’s eyes. Caius was not a tall man, but did not seem impressed or found Scire imposing in the least. “I doubt you’re happy, being torn away from whatever life you were living. I understand what it’s like to be caught up in things bigger than yourself. But this is bigger than yourself, you have to see that, if the Empire would go such lengths to bring you here. I need you to take this seriously, and answer me seriously. You really do seem like a nice guy, even though you tried to hit me in the face--” “I have a perfectly good reason for that.” Scire interjected. “And I do want to hear it.” Caius finished. “That doesn’t matter. What matters now is what work there is for you do in these packages. It’s clear you’ve got skills, I won’t deny that, and the Blades need those skills. The Empire needs those skills. Are you going to spit on that just because you won’t look past your own discomfort?” Scire stared at Caius for a long time, before looking away. “No, I’m not.” Scire had the vague impression Caius was playing to his ego—if the Blade was, it had worked rather well. “Good. Now, are you ready to join the Blades and follow my orders, Scire?” “Yes.” Scire said quietly. “Then welcome, Novice Scire, to the hidden protectors of the Empire.” He clapped the Dunmer on the shoulder, then crossed the room to a drawer that was slightly concealed on the underside of his desk. Caius fiddled with it for a moment, overcoming a lock and what was probably a trap, because he came out with a very overweight coin purse a moment later and tossed the pouch of Septims to Scire. Scire determined it was about two hundred Septims, just by weight alone. “Now go buy yourself a real outfit.” Caius said, then added. “And a bath, you reek.” Part 2 “I heard that we were attacked last night.” A young Dunmer man whispered, gravely, across a table full of empty sujamma bottles, looking to his friends, an old Dunmer, a young Imperial woman, a young Redguard girl, and a blue-scaled Argonian with bandages covering his bare chest. “I doubt that.” The Imperial scoffed, taking another drink and grinning, drunkenly. “No one attacks the Red Claws!” She boasted loudly, slamming her fist down on the table so hard that the old Dunmer nearly fell out of his seat, leading to even more laughter from the girl. “It’sh true.” The Blue Argonian hissed, slurring his ‘s’s even further than he usually did. “It shtabbed me and knocked me unconscioush.” “It?” The young Dunmer asked, pausing slightly in shock. “What do you mean, it?” He slowly drew his hand back from reaching for another bottle of sujamma and waited for the Argonian to speak. “I heard it was Lamae Beolfag, the Brood Mother, that returned from Coldharbour and swept through the camp.” The Old Dunmer croaked. “She slaughtered the watchmen and drank of their blood, before releasing a beast of oblivion upon the horses. Not even a single drop of blood was left, as she and her beast lapped it all up.” “I heard it was a wraith that descended from the sky, right into the middle of the camp.” The Redguard offered, wrapping her arms around herself, clearly scared by the stories. “It sucked the souls from the guards and turned the horses into flaming monsters!” She shuddered, pondering what it was like to have your soul ripped straight from your body. The Blue Argonian looked around the table, gravely. “I think it was Hircine himshelf that came into our camp.” All the members of the Bandit Clan gasped and quickly made small signs, superstitious symbols used to ward off evil. “Only the Hunter-King would’ve been able to do what I shaw last night.” The Blue Argonian scratched his bandages, absentmindedly, and looked around the table. “He moved with the speed of a Stag in full gallop.” He whispered, quietly, over the table. His fellow bandits leaned in and listened closely, excited and scared by the prospect of an encounter with a Daedric Prince. “In his hand he held a bow of liquid darkness.” He recounted, struggling to remember. “The biggest werewolf I have ever seen crawled before him. He fired arrows of bone, one after the other, always hitting one of our watchmen’s throat. Some of the shots looked impossible!” “That could’ve just been one of his priests.” The Imperial girl pointed out, leaning back in her chair. “Doesn’t make it the Father of Manbeasts.” “You didn’t let me finish.” The Argonian replied, irritably, and the Imperial Girl sat forward again. “One of our watchmen got close enough to try to land a strike, and Hircine grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off the ground!” The table gasped. “He threw him almost twenty feet, right into the mead barrelsh!” He paused and took a breath, before continuing. “His werewolf beast tore a man to shreds right in front of me! I tried to save him, but the beast mauled me and left me for dead…” He took a swig of his sujamma and look around the table. “The Lieutenant tried to stop the Prince, being the damned fool he is. He rushed the Prince, drawing his axe, and the Prince crushed his skull with one hand!” The Argonian shook his head, possibly in grief, and fell silent. “Last thing I saw before I passed out was the Hunter Daedra running off with all our horses, probably to feed to his minions…” The Old Dunmer sighed. “Damned shame, that is. I wonder who summoned such a horrific creature.” ---- While Hawke wasn’t summoned by anyone in the camp, she did prefer to steal horses from bandits instead of honest, hardworking folk, and she didn’t really mind collateral damage. Hawke wanted horse, bandits didn’t want Hawke to have horse, Hawke didn’t want bandits to have heads. It worked out nicely for the Augment, not so much for the bandits. Hawke and Dog rode through the Velothi mountains with little to no other major issues, besides the occasional wolf pack or bear attack. She handled those with ease, especially in her anger over Scire’s kidnapping. Dog had led her through the Deshaan region of Morrowind, before he lost the scent. A helpful Ashlander family, who only needed a tiny bit of ‘encouragement,’ admitted to having seen an Imperial envoy making for the Inner Sea. Upon reaching the city of Ebonheart, Hawke tried to get to the Imperial Guards to talk to her about the envoy, but their lips were sealed tight. Their training also prevented ‘encouragement’ from working very well, so Hawke did the next best thing. She lit the city on fire. It was not as nice as the things she did last time she was in Ebonheart, but she was starting to get desperate. The longer she was away from Scire, the more likely it was that he would say something and the Imperials would get sick of him and stab him. She had considered doing it a few times, and she loved him! What would someone else who didn’t love him do? As most of the Imperial and Hlaalu guards ran off to the west side of the city to put out the fire, Hawke broke into the Governor’s Hall and stole the shipping records, noting that a large group of Legionnaires had taken a ship to a small town on Vvardenfell named ‘Seyda Neen.’ After sneaking herself and Dog onto the next ship bound for that town, Hawke settled in. She didn’t really plan on killing anyone for the rest of the day, so she just closed her eyes and began to daydream, something that substituted actual sleeping for her. Apparently she must’ve gotten too distracted thinking about how she’d berate Scire for being dumb enough to get kidnapped, as a sailor boy spotted her hiding behind one of the crates and quickly alerted the captain. Hawke didn’t really feel like killing honest working men who were just doing their job, so she used nonlethal techniques to bring them down as she made for the top deck. Once up there, she was faced by a few sailors armed with crossbows, and that didn’t seem fun at all. She did a graceful swan dive into the sea, quickly followed by Dog. The woman and her pet only had to swim a few hundred yards before they made it to a dock. Hawke pulled herself up, dripping, only to be faced by an Imperial guardsman. He barely looked up from his papers and began to speak, sounding as if he was reading off some sick script. “You’ve finally arrived!” He said, blandly. “But our records don’t show from where.” Hawke pushed him in the ocean and moved on further down the docks. She didn’t have time to deal with idiotic Legionnaires. The Imperial spluttered and flailed around in the ocean, weighed down by his armor, moaning, “Why can’t anyone just answer the question?” Hawke kicked down a door and stepped through it, into a very plain and dull looking office, with a guard right next her and an old, wimpy man sitting behind the desk. The guard lunged at her, seeing her as some assassin or something, but she slammed her fist into his face and he went down with a cry. The old man quivered behind his desk. “Leave me alone! Guards! Help!” Hawke rolled her eyes and stepped closer. The man jumped out of his chair and laid in the fetal position, crying. Hawke raised her leg and brought it down on the desk, splitting it in two. The man only cried harder. “Tell me where you took Scire!” She roared, grabbing him by the collar of his robe and hoisting him up to look her in the eyes. “C-Can’t!” The man sobbed. “O-Orders from the Emperor!” Hawke shook him, angrily, but the man wasn’t going to talk, it seemed. She grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him outside. They made an odd sight, with the little hooded girl dragging the old man by the leg through the streets of Seyda Neen, with her massive wolfhound bounding along beside her. The guards were so astonished that they did nothing, simply standing there and scratching their heads as they watched her hoist him on her back and climb up a rather tall tree in the swamp near the town. The man shook violently as he watched Hawke tie one end of a short rope to his ankle and the other onto the limb of the branch upon which they sat, face to face. “W-What are you doing?” He asked, fearfully, as she secured the rope. “You’re going to tell me where your Imperial Highness took my husband.” Hawke said, saying the Emperor’s title with such venom that the Census Officer drew back in fear. “I c-can’t! I’m under a sworn oath to not reveal information!” The officer sobbed, flinching as Hawke gingerly grabbed his arm. “You can either tell me…” She began, before using her other hand to turn the man’s head to look at a Bosmer who was flying around, joyfully, in the air. “Or…” The Bosmer apparently ran out of magicka, as he slowed and then began to fall, rapidly, screaming all the way down. He landed with a loud ‘thud,’ that could be heard all the way from the branch of their tree. “...You could die like him.” The Census Officer sobbed even louder. “P-please, no! I… I c-can’t tell you!” Hawke shoved him from the tree, and he screamed as he fell five feet, before the rope around his ankle stopped him, and he was left hanging upside down from the tree. Hawke remained in her seat, watching him calmly. The Census Officer screamed as he stared down, only about ten feet from Hawke’s massive greyhound. “Dog. Kill.” Dog instantly became ravenous and began barking aggressively, baring his fangs. He began to leap up at the Census Officer, leading to more screaming. He was relieved that he had so much space between him and the leaping hound, but then he heard a cutting sound. He looked up, and saw that the small woman was slowly cutting through the rope that held him away from death by mauling. He screamed, “Balmora!” Hawke paused in her cutting. “Repeat?” “He was sent to Balmora, to a man named Caius Cosades!” “Thanks.” Hawke smiled in a way that made the Census Officer scared. With one swing, Hawke cut the rope and Socucius Ergalla, esteemed Census and Exise agent, hit the ground. He shrieked and covered his head, waiting for the dog to maul him, but nothing happened. A ‘thud’ sounded behind him, as Hawke landed on her feet beside him, having jumped down from the tree. Dog growled as the Officer looked up at her, so Socucius covered his head again, sobbing. “Thank you for your cooperation.” Hawke said, simply, patting Socucius’ bald head lightly. She walked off, and Dog quickly followed, beginning their journey for Balmora. Part 3 Scire stepped out of the Balmora southern entrance, bathed, and decked out in a fine set of Chitin armor with a newly crafted oak bow. He’d traded out the iron dagger for a steel shortword, which sat in a sheath on his hip. The iron arrows on his back rested in a woven quiver, and he had some pouches added to the armor for his supplies and gold. He was to head to a Dwemer ruin, Arkngthand, and find a thing called a ‘Dwemer puzzle cube.’ An informant who had information Caius wanted required the cube as a favor for said information. The ruin was occupied by a mean group of bandits, so the informant was unable to go and get it himself. Which, of course, caused the job to fall to Scire. His protests that he hadn’t been in a serious fight in twenty or so years proved rather fruitless, Caius telling him that if he was going to the hit ground as a Blade, he might as well do it running. It was a eastward he headed, and it wasn’t long until he reached Foyada Mamaea, one of the massive fire rivers that crossed Vvardenfell. Lava bubbled in the split in the ground, the only thing connecting either side of the gap it inhabited was an ancient Dwemer bridge—the very bridge that would lead Scire to Arkngthand. The only thing that had really stuck in his head when Caius had explained all this was just how ancient this bridge was. An ancient bridge. Over a river of lava. ''Could be worse. Scire thought, as he began to cross it, sticking to the middle. Someone could be trying to push me into it. “Hold there, traveler!” Growled a voice from across the bridge, on the side Scire wanted to be. An old man stood in view, and he was the most rag-tag old man Scire had ever seen. He was filthy, with gray hair in strands, and was clothed only in an iron cuirass and a pair of torn, very stained pants. “If ye wish to cross the bridge, you must pay a Snowy Granius a toll!” Charming. Scire thought, grimacing. The Scire of twenty years ago would’ve shot him through the knee, perhaps the face if he had been feeling particularly bloodthirsty. “How much?” Scire asked, scratching his head. “All the gold ye have on you, o’course!” Snowy Granius called back. Oh, Azura, one of ''these bandits.'' “Look, pal, I’m not giving you anything.” Scire said, drawing an arrow from the quiver on his back, and resting it against his bowstring. “Get off, before my patience runs out.” “Nay! No point in debating it, elf, if ye don’t pay it here, Boss Crito and the rest of the crew will kill you when ye cross to Arkngthand!” I’m counting on them trying. “I don’t have time for this.” Scire muttered, raising the bow and aiming it at Snowy. “Last chance!” He shouted. Snowy, instead of making the smart decision to run, screamed a warcry, raised his axe over his head, and charged Scire, Magicka pooling in the bandit’s off-hand. Scire released an arrow through his throat. Snowy’s head snapped back as a couple hundred pounds of force smashed his trachea, throat, jugular vein, and other pulmonary arteries. The amount of blood and gore that was thrown to the ground, with a sickening splat, was much greater than Scire remembered. Snowy was dead before he even hit the ground, head only hanging onto his body by a few stands of skin, eyes bulging. “Oh fuck…” Scire groaned, before leaning over the side of the bridge and vomiting down into the Foyada. He wiped his mouth, before stumbling to the middle of the bridge again, and pressing forwards, not looking at Snowy’s body as he passed it. Into the ruin he dove, through the crack-operated door, and descending levels. It was dark, dank, and overall unpleasant. Machinery clicked on and off, and Scire was cautious of where he placed his feet. He may have lost his stomach for taking human life, but he had taken no absence from hunting in the last few decades, and he was quieter than ever. Scire snuck by eight or so bandits, before he finally came to a place where his way forwards, determined by the power he’d always had, was blocked. Two bandits stood up ahead, in the light, talking. They sat around a lower brazier, the fire just at eye level. “…had a face like an Oliphant, it did.” One said. “But a voice with gravel, all grindy. Spoke to me.” “In your sleep.” The other said, disbelieving. “Yah! It said ‘beneath Red Mountain, Lord Dagoth has awakened. Now Sleepers and Dreamers all are risen, and the dust is blown away. Come to your Lord, Dagoth Ur. The Sixth House is risen, and Dagoth is its glory.’" The first recited “Just like that.” The second said, still in disbelief. “Exactly like that!” The first asserted, then scratched his head. “Exactly like that… it’s pretty weird that I remember all of it, actually.” By now, Scire had snuck up on them. He lunged forwards, taking the dreamer by the back of the head, and smashed his forehead into the rim of the brazier. The man slumped to the side, slack. The second recoiled in fright and shock, and Scire was upon him, sword drawn in a flash. Time hadn’t dulled his reflexes in the slightest, they were keener than they’d used to be in fact, and he slammed his forearm into the bandit’s throat. The two toppled to the ground, Scire straddling the man’s chest, and he drove the shortsword down into the bandit’s shoulder. The bandit howled at that, and howled louder when Scire tore the blade free, blood flashing in the air. He then swung the pommel down, bashing the man on the temple with it. The bandit’s head lolled to the side, unconscious. Scire stumbled to his feet, breathing heavily, and made for the only way forwards, a door to his left. Instead were shelves of Dwemer pottery and contraptions, like gyros, and a little searching brought him to his object of choice. The puzzle cube. He hefted it, testing the things wait, before lowering it to one of his pouches. The voice that spoke caused him to freeze. “You’re good.” A man in sleeveless leather cuirass, dark pants and dark boots, with a black cape said, stepping out from behind a corner. “Anyone who killed Snowy and got past my men proves that.” “Seriously?” Scire said, turning to face who was undoubtedly Boss Crito. “You’re impressed I killed some nut?” He slipped the cube into his pouch. “No offense, Crito, but the only thing terrifying about that man was his need for a bath.” Crito wasn’t amused. “I was planning on letting you go. There are so many treasures in this room you could’ve taken and I wouldn’t’ve batted an eye.” He pointed to the pouch Scire had stuck the cube into. “But I can’t let you leave with that.” “Well, actually, I think you should. It’s pretty important I take it, in fact, I probably need it more than you do. I mean, it was just sitting here, that doesn’t show you were actively using it…” “The cube is mine.” Crito said. “Give it to me or die.” “Oh, yeah, well, I guess I’m going to choose death then…” Scire had an arrow out in a flash, drawn to his bow. “For you.” Crito shook his head, hands picking up a white glow, in preparation for Frost magic. “You made a big mistake, pilgrim.” Scire let the arrow lose at Crito, sent speeding towards his chest. Crito waved his hand in front of his casting a spell, and generating a wall of ice. The arrow harmlessly embedded itself in it, and Crito then surged forward, smashing through the frosty screen he had just created, pulling a war axe from his belt. Scire dropped his bow, pulling his short-sword free, and dropping into a defensive stance. Crito hacked downwards at Scire viciously, but the Dunmer easily slapped the attack aside. He pressed the advantage, lunging for Crito’s hip, and scored a deep would into the Boss’ flesh. Crito stumbled away, eyes wide with pain and fear. It was already painfully obvious who the better fighter was. “Perhaps I could let you keep the cube…” Crito began. “Not a chance.” Scire cut in, lunging at Crito. The mage held up his hand to cast a spell, but Scire had already closed distance, and swung upward in a vertical slash for Crito’s wrist. The bandit screamed as he dropped to his knees, clutching at the bleeding stump that had previously been his left hand. Scire winced, the gory seen not easy on his already weak stomach. “You might want to get that looked at.” Scire mumbled, gagging, before rushing from the room, and then out of the ruin itself, Crito’s pained screams following him. ---- “I appreciate this.” Hasphat said, analyzing the Dwemer cube that now sat on his desk. “I’ve needed new material for a book for quite a while.” Scire and Caius shared a look from their seats opposite Hasphat, the drillmaster of the Fighter’s Guild. It was in the Balmora division of the Guild that Scire and Caius currently were. Scire had wasted no time and heading straight to Caius from Arkngthand, and Caius had wasted even less time in taking Scire to Hasphat. Caius still wasn’t wearing a shirt, which was beginning to bug Scire. “A book?” Scire said, sitting forwards, really just wanting Hasphat to focus than actually expressing curiousity. “I thought you were a warrior.” “He is.” Caius said. “But he’s also one of the leading experts on the history of Morrowind. “I picked up quite the interest for it early on in my career.” The Imperial said, twisting his new cube about. “I traveled to quite a few interesting places, and it really just captured my imagination. “Fascinating, really.” Scire said. “But there’s obviously a point to all this.” “As a leading expert,” Caius said, glaring sideways at Scire. “Hasphat knows about two cults the Blades are interested in. The Sixth House and the Nerevarine cult.” “Oh yes, I know quite a bit about them.” Hasphat assured the pair. “Magnificent subjects, really. Both cults are so similar, yet so different. Both believe in the return of a religious, almost god-like figure, and both are dedicated to bringing about his return. Yet the figures respective to each cult were mortal enemies. Voryn Dagoth and Indoril Nerevar.” “I’m an Ashlander.” Scire said. “I’m a part of the Nerevarine cult, I know all about this. Caius really could’ve just asked me about this.” “Except that you’re an idiot.” The Imperial muttered, not exactly quietly. It was Scire’s turn to glare at him. “Yes, and I have no doubt you know much of the Nerevarine cult.” Hasphat assured him, unfazed by the interruption. “But surely you know next to nothing of the Cult of the Sixth House, as they call themselves.” Scire shook his head. “They take their name from an old, old term used to refer to House Dagoth. They’ve been around for as long as the Nerevarine cult, but recently faced a resurgence, eating up territory. Old forts and ruins have gradually be incorporated into the Sixth House’s ownings. They’ve been left alone, so far, and haven’t come to any extreme clashes with authorities, but there is some definite concern among the Temple about what to do about them. Just as there is concern over the Nerevarine cult.” “But surely this is worse.” Caius said. “You told me earlier that you think the Sixth House is a threat.” “Oh they undoubtedly are. Both cults believe their figures, Voryn and Nerevar alike, will save Morrowind. The Nerevarine cult believes that Nerevar will be reborn and lead them into a golden age, righting wrongs and spreading justice across the land. But the Sixth House, they believe the godly form of Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur he is called, will lead Morrowind into an age of power, by conquering and destroying ever other civilization on Tamriel. That level of zealotry, the belief that such a thing could ever really be a desirable outcome, if not the most desirable one… well, you could almost call it evil.” Caius nodded politely. “Thank you, Hasphat.” “Anytime, Caius. I really don’t know all that much on the subject, though. Sharn gro-Muzgob would know more, over at the Mage’s Guild.” Scire and Caius both rose, and headed for the door, but Caius came to a stop as Hasphat offhandedly called from behind him. “Go easy on the sugar from now on, Caius, that stuff really isn’t good for you.” Caius only grimaced, and removed himself from the office. Scire followed. The two walking through the training room of the guild, to the outdoors, where Caius brought Scire to a stop. “I want you to go talk to this Sharn, find out what he knows.” “Caius, I lived in Morrowind for a long time. The Sixth House has been around forever. I don’t think they’re really anything to worry about, even if they’ve gotten some new lands and members.” “I want you to talk to Sharn.” Caius said again. “Whether you're right or not, I have it on good account that Morrowind is in for quite the rough patch soon.” Chapter 3 Category:Blog posts Category:Stories Category:The Legend of Nirn